


Where Are You, Christmas?

by QuartzHollow



Series: Duck Christmas [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Baby HDL, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Cousins, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Past Character Death, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-24 22:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuartzHollow/pseuds/QuartzHollow
Summary: Christmas Eve without Della isn't Christmas Eve to Donald.





	Where Are You, Christmas?

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be part of a small series, and to be less rough, but time (and tide) wait for no one.

_Where are You, Christmas?_

 

Christmas Eve. The Night Before Christmas. December the 24th.

 

It didn't look like it.

 

Not a stocking was hung; not a candle was lit; no tree filled the room with the glow of a hundred star-like lights. Santa could search the place from top to bottom and not find a single cookie or glass of milk.

 

Not that he'd actually be visiting; no, not one well-wisher or gift-giver was expected that night. Anything and everything that usually would mark the occasion was nowhere to be seen.

 

It was only rational, to Donald, because whatever the calendar said, it _wasn't_ Christmas Eve. Not to him.

 

On Christmas Eve, a spicy-scented fire would be crackling in an enormous hearth, tanning the backs of the home-stitched stockings and warring with the cranberry incense in a battle of smells. The cookies triumphed above them both — chocolate chip, sugar, and gingerbread heaped on silver trays, gifting summer's warmth to the kitchen. Hands would be trying to sneak around the housekeeper's mass, but she was always too quick for them, and it would end in light, playful warnings and musical giggles.

 

Brilliant blue eyes would sparkle with joy and mischief; a hand would wrap around his torso, pulling him close, another stuffing a thermos bottle of cocoa in his hands as he was pulled into the out-of-doors. Ice and snow and blueberry perfume would tickle his nose, and he would offer his customary token complaints as he was dragged into a tent, arm in arm and flopping on the sleeping bags, for another night's vigil. _That no-good cookie cruncher would be caught tonight, he'd see._

 

And so he would sit, him and his other half, and as she watched the stars he watched them in her eyes.

 

_(You never needed to go to space, Della. The universe was in you.)_

 

But now there was nothing. The joy, the warmth, the sun-in-his-heart that he'd always feel at Christmas time, was gone, replaced by a cold, empty numbness.

 

He wasn't _sad_ . He wasn't miserly, a Grinch or a _Scrooge._

 

Just cold. Just empty. Just numb. Ice had crusted over his heart; he had changed, no longer a bright-eyed youth, and no longer welcome to Christmas spirit.

 

How could so much be so different in only a year? Had it really been so short? Three hundred sixty-five days stretched into a lifetime, transporting him into a new world. A world of grey skies and howling wind, dark windows and treeless living rooms, threadbare quilts and portable radiators huddled closer than advisable to a stiff-backed armchair. A world where a joyless, lonely night stretched before him with no one to accompany him but three sleeping infants who could hardly speak.

 

He brushed his hands over the triplets’ feathers, them cradled beside him in a crib, and a hint of guilt threatened to seep through his nothingness. Maybe he should have tried to give them a better Christmas. It was their first, after all. Whether he did or not, they'd never remember, but Della would have wanted them to have a great one anyways. Too late now to change much. Too late, too late, too late for a lot of things, wasn't he? But maybe he could still do _something_.

 

 _Bang, bang, bang._ Heavy pounding shook the door and shattered his thoughts. The triplets screwed up their eyes and shot back shrill cries of protest. Donald lept from his chair and pushed them back, behind the armchair where they'd be blocked from view and aim, and hurried to the door, heart thumping as loudly as the knocks. “Who is it?!”

 

“Christmas greetings!” a cheery voice sang out, and Donald could have strangled the body it belonged to. Undoing the lock, he flung the door open and glowered.

 

“ _What_ are you _bashing my door down_ for?!” He demanded, fists planted on his hips. “You woke the triplets!”

 

Fethry ducked deeper into his Christmas sweater and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, cuz. Ahhh, merry Christmas?”

 

Donald dragged a hand over his face. He breathed deeply, not speaking until the heat of anger drained away. It passed almost as quickly as it came, and he sighed. “What are you doing here. You're supposed to be at Granny's.”

 

“ _You_ didn't go,” Fethry replied. He squeezed past, momentary fear and reservations forgotten, and ambled into the room. He picked up and fiddled with several knickknacks as he spoke. “Granny said you weren't coming for Christmas nor spending it with Uncle Scrooge, and so we figured you'd be here all alone, so we had to come.” Fethry turned back around and jumped in for a hug. “We couldn't just leave you alone on Christmas.”

 

“ ‘ _We_ ’?” Donald asked warily, patting his cousin's back and secretly eyeing him for any signs of whatever monster-creature he'd brought along.”

 

“That's right cuz, _we._ ” The smooth voice behind them was worse than any growl Donald had expected. He groaned.

 

“No. Not you.”

 

“ _Of course_ it’s me, here to make the holidays totally _glad_.” Two arms draped over Donald's shoulders in a lazy hug. “Good thing, too. It's not looking very festive around here, cuz.”

 

“That's because I'm not celebrating Christmas this year,” Donald gritted. He shrugged off the other's arms and glared. “Now _get out_.”

 

Gladstone snorted. “That’s an unseasonal way to treat your family. We're here to help. Hey, Feathers, put that down and go get the stuff.”

 

Fethry had released Donald and began inspecting an upended paperweight on side table, but at Gladstone's words he dropped it with a wince-worthy clatter and bounced out. “Okay! Be right back.”

 

“Good.” Gladstone thumped Donald's shoulder and sauntered past towards the crib, where the triplets still lay sniffling. “I'll help you with the little ones.”

 

“Oh no you won't.” Arms flung out, Donald blocked his way. “I'm serious, Gladstone. I don't want to have Christmas. Go away.”

 

For once Gladstone actually stopped, and the smug look dropped from his face. The soul-searching, measuring expression that replaced it made Donald falter. It wasn't a look he'd ever imagined on his cousin; had the rest of his family changed so much, too? Was anything the same?

 

Gladstone rested a hand on his shoulder, and his voice was soft as he spoke. “Look cuz, if you don't want Christmas, _I_ _get it_. I do. We don't have to have it. But these last few months… you've been closing yourself off from us, bud. Everyone. I checked. And that's —that’s not _healthy._ I know you're hurt by this the worst, but… let us help. Feathers is right; you shouldn't be alone right now, and you don't have to be.”

 

Donald couldn't look into those oddly earnest eyes; he looked at the carpet. The desire to kick them out and the need to let them stay warred inside. Another emotion began welling out of the numbness, stinging the bottom of his throat and the backs of his eyes. What, he couldn't quite identify, but it was enough to tip the scales. “Ok, fine. Just this once. Del… Della would want them to have a special Christmas.”

 

“Good.” Gladstone snapped back into something more resembling his usual self and strode forwards, pulling the crib back into the open and snatching up Louie. Donald smoothed Huey's hair feathers but picked up Dewey, the most impatient triplet, first.

 

Grunts and the sound of something heavy and slightly jingly scraping against the floor announced Fethry's return. It fell to the floor with a _thump_ as he gasped. “Oh, the babies! I want one.”

 

“Careful — _careful_!” Donald cautioned, wincing, as Fethry scooped Huey up and tossed him in the air.

 

“Don't worry, Donnie,” Fethry said. He nuzzled Huey and squeezed him in a hug, earning giggles from the duckling and more worried wincing from Donald. “I got the Lil Don. He's gonna help me with the tree, aren't you? And look, we're color-coded!”

 

Donald rolled his eyes. “Fascinating. And his name is _Huey_.” He turned and saw that the heavy thing was, indeed, a little tree, already appearing to have lights and garland wrapped round it in a chaotic but heartfelt attempt. Dewey reached for it, cooing and bubbling slobbery words. Donald bounced him and stepped closer. “Hey big man, you going to help with the tree, too?”

 

“Tree. He'p tree,” Dewey grunted, though Donald had a sneaking suspicion he was more interested in ripping off the garland than in giving assistance. Still, both he and Huey looked ecstatic, and Donald couldn't help but grin.

 

“All right then, we'll get it set up. Come on.”

 

Donald stepped over the tree by Huey as Fethry set the triplet down to fetch some boxes from their car. His other cousin still hovered by the crib.

 

“This little miser and I will get started on the cookies,” Gladstone decided, hefting Louie up a little higher as the baby tried to lean to grab the golden edges of his uncle’s robe. Unfortunately for Gladstone, this just meant Louie was in reach of his hair.

 

Not that Donald would tell him that. He just smiled and nodded, appreciative with a hint of mischief, and enjoyed the shocked yelp from the kitchen a minute later. Setting his triplet on the floor, he pulled a box Fethry brought in closer. “Ok Dew-man, can I trust you to _not_ eat the ornament? Just hold it until I set the tree up, ok? Good job.”

 

It turned out that Gladstone and Fethry were either the kings of last-minute shopping and gathering or had had this planned for a while. The room transformed into a wonderland fit for an (albeit somewhat cramped) hallmark movie scene in just a few hours.

 

Sitting among red and green wrapping paper the next morning, a glowing tree to his left and a mountain of cookies to his right, laughter and joy pouring into the air, the ice prickled around Donald's heart began to thaw. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't the end of the pain.

 

But it was something, a glow of warmth once again.

 


End file.
